isadora sits back for a moment, her hands tired but steady, her gaze fixed on the bloodied mess that was once a clean surface. frank had been careful this time, waiting until the chaos had died down before letting himself through the door, just as he always inevitably did. ❝i swear, frank, one of these days you're gonna stop walking in here like you're invincible, ❞ she mutters under her breath, her fingers working swiftly over a bullet wound on his shoulder. she doesn’t expect him to answer; he rarely does. but it doesn’t stop her from talking, from keeping the words flowing like a steady stream between them, filling the space where his silence leaves a hole. it's the closest they get to communication these days — her voice, his stillness, & the work they both know too well.
@deathcrime is injured!
